


losing is a full time job (go inward and choke)

by deimosun



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, neurodivergent character, sort of character study on neymar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deimosun/pseuds/deimosun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he knows a couple of things: he’s at home (his home), he’s at bed (his bed) and he’s on his own (all alone). his mouth feels dry, lips chapped, skin pulled tight over the muscles there. </p><p>or that uni au where neymar fails a test, rafa doesn’t really understand and it takes them a few tries to finally get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	losing is a full time job (go inward and choke)

**Author's Note:**

> neymar has depression and borderline personality disorder. also he dissociates some times on this fic - if it triggers u, please don't read! rafa is his safe person etc.
> 
>  
> 
> [title from here.](http://old.aprweb.org/poem/losing-full-time-job)

neymar feels heavy.

he’s sitting on the bed, feet hanging of the edge, breath coming out slowly, chest rising and falling on a slug’s pace. his phone is probably somewhere under the bed from when it slipped off his hand and fell through the gap against the wall. his mind is foggy and everything is slow, it feels like – it feels like he’s not really there even though he knows he is, that there is no other place for him to be. no other place he could be.

his hands feel sweaty against his thighs, the phone charger cord is pressed tight against the back of his knees.

he should get up, pick the phone, turn it on, deal with the buzzing and everything else that comes along with it.

he doesn’t and instead, lays in bed and pulls the blankets high enough that they cover his head.

if your feet is not sticking out, the monsters can’t catch you.

 

* * *

 

he didn’t know – he didn’t know.

if he had, he wouldn’t have been there.

neymar doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t remember anything from the test but it must have gone awfully for it to turn out the way it did. he was so anxious his mind blocked it out, made it seem like it didn’t happen when of course it did – of course it did, the final grade was there and there was no way to pretend it was anything but absolutely shit.

it’s a week after the exam and he’s at class. he’s at class and everyone is praising each other, saying something about a party to congratulate themselves on _we finally did it! we are done with this shit!_ but all neymar brain keeps going on about how much he failed, he fucked up, god he even fucked this up, a simple oral presentation – he managed to fuck it up.

his brain is buzzing and his eyes have a hard time focusing, the sounds seem slow on his ears and everything is a tad bit blurry. he needs to find rafa, he needs to talk to him, he needs to find rafa. he rubs at his eyes and looks around, looking for tall, black & handsome when he hears a laugh – a laugh he’d recognize anywhere, everywhere, that cuts through air and time.

neymar’s eyes go straight to where the sound is coming from and finally, rafa – except rafa is busy. rafa is with someone else – someone elses. he’s with a group of friends and he’s laughing, head thrown back. a boy seems to be congratulating him and rafa smiles, all white teeth and pretty eyes.

neymar’s blood boils, his head clouds and he bolts the fuck out of there without saying a word.

 

* * *

 

when he’s like this – when neymar is like this, he’s not sure if time slows down or speeds up. he can’t really grasp reality or feel it around him, things are blurred and foggy, nothing stands out, nothing that makes him pinpoint an exact moment on time.

from all the time that passed, he only got up once to take a piss and the sky looked weird, from what he saw through the bathroom window. dark and grey and moody.

he knows a couple of things: he’s at home (his home), he’s at bed (his bed) and he’s on his own (all alone). his mouth feels dry, lips chapped, skin pulled tight over the muscles there.

he should get up, get water, get his meds. he just lays in bed instead.

 

* * *

 

the kitchen doesn’t look very pretty – it looks a mess. there’s plates and glasses and bowls and mugs still half filled with coffee all pilled up on the sink, there’s an opened milk container sitting on the middle of the table that probably has gone bad by now, a cereal box spilled down on the floor in front of the fridge from where he accidentally dropped it days before but didn’t have time to pick up.

it’s all still there.

neymar stands on the doorway and looks at it, how still everything is still stuck even though nothing else is. he kicks a redbull can near his foot out of the way and it goes rolling off, the sound of tin against ceramic the only sound besides his own breathing and dragged down footsteps.

he shuffles until he can reach a forgotten water bottle on the counter. he opens it and takes a gulp, ignores the gritty week old taste of the water. he needs just enough to wash down the pills that were inside his mouth, waiting to be swallowed, the wet bit already staining his tongue light blue.

 

* * *

 

a snap of a fight: 

“it’s easy for you to say!” neymar yells at him, hands shaking as he clutches the hoodie he stole from rafa tighter around his skinny frame. it’s all draped around him, long enough that the sleeves are covering his fingertips.

“neymar, please – “ rafa starts again, but neymar shakes his head and

“how can you say that? literally – how can you say that – you don’t even _understand_ , how can you fucking say that –“

“of course i don’t understand! you don’t tell me what is wrong, what am i supposed to do, guess?“ rafa yells back, face flushed and hands fisted on his sides, only the top buttons on his button down are opened and neymar can see his chest and it looks bronzed, it looks bronzed from vacations down on santos, laying around on the beach and being kissed by the sun.

 

* * *

 

next time he wakes up, it’s dark outside. he can tell because  there’s no invasive bright light filtering through the bottom of his bedroom door.

neymar scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hands, one hand automatically going under the pillow in search for his phone before he remembers it’s still somewhere under the bed, probably shattered in a few pieces.

he closes his eyes and focuses on the pounding headache inside his skull, beating against his temples and resonating around on his whole brain. everything still feels off, everything still is far away but at least now – at least now he can feel his limbs, he can feel his face, he can feel his skin.

he pushes the blanket off and puts his feet on the ground. he’s not wearing socks and his toes are really cold.

he goes to the floor so he can get under the bed and touch around until he finally manages to get all the three pieces of his phone all on his hands. he puts it back together hastily, no real care on the job.

he’s sitting on the floor but with his back against the bed. when his phone finally lights up (the shattered screen from that time rafa dropped it because he miscalculated the distance from where his head was nestled on neymar’s lap to neymar’s bed is _still there_ ), he closes his eyes on reflex because he’s not used to anything but the dark, lately.

it takes a few seconds until his vision stops spinning and he can focus on what’s the screen.

he doesn’t know what he expected to see, maybe wasn’t expecting anything, really, but the four missed calls from his sister and several messages plus calls from rafa makes his stomach turn into knots.

it doesn’t matter.

 _it doesn’t matter_ , he keeps telling himself, like a mantra, as he crawls back into bed for more hours of unblessed sleep.

 

* * *

 

neymar isn’t sure what to do, how to act, who to call. he isn’t even sure he wants to.

he knows he has to call his father, he knows it, and he will. he will call father and he will listen to the disappointed voice over the line, to the soft soothing murmurs of his mom on the background, he will hum at all the right places and promise to do better next time (a promise so empty is resonates back).

he knows he has to call his father, he knows it, and he will.

 

* * *

 

father picks up on the fifth ring. he greets neymar with a neutral _hi there, son_ and if neymar wasn’t feeling bad enough already on his own, he sure would feel now.

he swipes his sweaty hands on his three day old shirt, lets go of his bottom lip and sinks his nails on the palm of his hand instead.

“hi, dad.”

“so, what is the occasion?” his dad asks, straight to the point, not giving one extra inch of space. neymar could drag it on, make a joke, say _you think i only call when something is wrong?_ except it wouldn’t be a joke and his dad wouldn’t laugh, would just breath heavily enough that neymar would hear it ringing inside his ears for hours after the conversation is done.

“you won’t like what i have to say,” neymar tells him, digs his nails deeper, starts moving his feet up and down rhythmically against the wooden floorboard of his room. “but.”

he stops, takes a deep breath – he’d much rather do this by text, but his dad always told him to speak up, be louder, make himself seen.

he thinks it’s only fair to at least show up for once.

“but?” his father inquiries, a slight impatient hint on his voice, barely imperceptible but it’s there, it’s there and neymar picks it up. it’s enough to set the dam open, nervousness spilling out of him on waves, like a pot of milk who was just about to boil suddenly reaching 80 degrees.

he wants to end the call, he wants to turn his phone off and never look at it again, wants to bury it on the dirt besides the bus station he goes to every day.

neymar takes a shallow breath and bites on his tongue hard, feels it numbing and only lets it go when he doesn’t feel much of it at all.

“i failed the last test. i fucked up.”

he says it all at once, applies the ripping a band aid in one go logic. it’s supposed to hurt less, isn’t it?

that’s a lie, because the dissatisfied, _i expected better from you, son_ that comes from his father’s mouth stings just as it always does. as it always has.

they don’t stay in line much longer, just enough for his dad to say he’ll be coming down in a few weeks time when he gets a free weekend so they can talk, face to face.

there’s an empty silent at the end until neymar remembers what he’s supposed to do.

“i love you, dad.” he breathes into the line, quiet and low.

he gets a muffled  _you too_ before the line goes silent.

 

* * *

 

with his phone turned on, he ignored seven more texts and two more calls from rafa. pretended the buzzing was just on his head instead of trembling over his chest, right over his heart, a constant humming that sounded like a bunch of bees flying around and hitting the walls of his skull.

_hey neymar_

_are you okay?_

_im a bit worried_

_hey neymar please answer me –_

_neymar_

_neymar, fuck fuck just answer me, just say_

_just say something_

 

* * *

 

he’s so tired and slow that when the doorbell rings and keeps ringing, won’t stop, he forgets to look through the fisheye. he just assumes it’s the downstairs old lady whining about the bathroom sink making too much noise again, whatever the hell that even means.

so when he realize who’s behind the door isn’t a slightly creepy old lady and is actually rafa, he closes it as fast as he can.

or at least tries to.

“neymar, jesus christ –“ rafa says, struggling to keep the door open and trying to ignore the ache on his foot from having the door pressing tight against it. “let me in!”

“no, fuck off –“ neymar yells at him, still trying to close the door, shoving his whole body against it, heart rabbiting against his chest like he’s an animal just about to face a predator.

except he’s not strong enough, he’s as skinny and shaky as a newborn deer and rafa has always been the bigger one of the two, so it’s no surprise when the door comes back against him with force and sends him sprawling on the floor.

rafa is standing on the doorway and he is out of breath but he's still as gorgeous, still just as pretty as always. neymar hates him even more on that moment.

“fuck neymar, are you okay – i'm sorry, i didn’t mean to make you fall –“ rafa starts, but when he goes to get closer to neymar so he can check on him, neymar hisses like a cat and scurries away, going as far as he can, on the opposite side of the living room.

rafa is breathing heavily and so is neymar, both their chests going up and down fast like a bullet, lungs expanding on the search for more oxygen, on the search for something that feels right.

“are you okay?” rafa finally asks, on a calm, tentative voice. his hands look soft. neymar’s skin tingles with how much he missed him. “it’s. it’s been days, jesus christ.”

he decides to stomp down on the feeling instead, and ignores how empty his ribcage feels.

“who fucking cares,” neymar tells him, looking anywhere but at him, eyes focusing on the coffee table before shifting to the ugly painting they did together on the first day neymar moved in, to the coffee stain at the carpet, to the shitty couch they bought on a garage sale together, too. “you certainly don’t, so what’s the fucking point – “

“what do you mean, i don’t care?” rafa interrupts him, eyes wide and hair everywhere, strands sticking out from him running his hand through it one too many times.

“what do i mean you don’t care?” neymar bites back, mockingly, derision dripping from his words so thickly that it stains everything. “i mean exactly that: you don’t fucking care.”

and the thing is – neymar looks so fragile and even skinnier than usual, god, he probably hasn’t eaten in days, the soft dark blue blanket makes him look even paler than he probably actually is right now and rafa feels his heart constrict so hard against his chest it could pass off as a heart attack symptom.

neymar looks miserable and tired, dark bags under his eyes and his hands haven’t let go of the blanket, they hug it tight as if it is the only thing keeping him there.

rafa could pinpoint a hundred things wrong right then, about how it was very late into a friday night and how about he had work next morning and how about neymar didn’t show his face up around for seventy two hours and how he was feeling so ill with worry but nothing feels right, not for that moment. not for them.

“of course i care, neymar.” rafa tells him softly, still not stepping closer because he knows if he does neymar will just run away, bolt straight out of the doorway to god knows where. “i'm here, aren’t i?”

neymar snorts and sits down on the couch, pulling his knees up so he can hide them underneath the blanket, too.

“that’s not enough.”

“it has to be. if it isn’t, what else is?”

“i hate you.”

it’s silent after that, neymar breathing heavily, shoulders sagged under the blanket.

“do you mean that?” rafa asks and his body looks rigid, shoulders tense and looking just like a straight line.

neymar shrugs but doesn’t answer, focuses on the feeling of a numb foot, the sensation spreading up on his leg like a spider making a web, slow and steady.

it’s silent until neymar speaks up again.

“i thought you – i thought you were out partying while i was fucking miserable.”

“i didn’t know what happened. i couldn’t get a hold of you, i had no idea what was going on – of course i wasn’t out partying, i was worried sick, but i just didn’t know what to do. you always know your ways, i swear i didn’t know what to do.”

neymar doesn’t answer, keeps chewing on his bottom lip. it looks red already, skin so tender it probably hurts.

“i thought – i thought maybe you might need space, ney. if you hadn’t opened the door i'd left a note and given you space.”

at that neymar’s head perks up, finally – god, finally looking rafa on the eye for the first time on so long. rafa steps closer then, softly and steady, before sitting besides neymar. 

it's quiet for a bit.

“i don’t need space.” neymar eventually tells him, a hand sneaking out of the blanket fort so it can curl around rafa’s own, cold digits touching warm skin after days. “never from you.”

“please don’t disappear again,” rafa tells against his neck, hands rubbing neymar’s up and down, feeling and touching finally, after so long.

“i'm sorry,” neymar remarks, body going soft, so so soft under rafa’s touch.

“it’s okay,” rafa tells him before kissing the top of his head.

it’s not, but. it will be.

 

* * *

 

(fifteen year old, sharing a room during hot sticky brazilian summer. 

neymar is a handsy little thing, all sharp edges and cold touches. he wants to sleep with rafa on the same bed and won’t settle for a no as answer.

and rafa, being rafa, keeps kicking him out of bed just for fun.

neymar pouts gets bigger and bigger, rafa laughs harder and harder each time neymar looks truly betrayed upon being shoved towards the ground again.

“but rafa!!!” he whines, his skinny little arms going up on surrender. “i wanna sleep with you.”

“ugh, i hate you!” neymar says and he’s not thinking about it, the words just leave his mouth but before he can even think twice rafa is on him, pinning him to the floor.

“do you mean that?” he asks, serious, all joy gone from his voice. neymar shakes his head negatively and puts a hand on rafa’s forearm, rubs his thumb against the skin.

“of course i don’t hate you, stupid – “

“then don’t say it.”

“okay, fine, fine, ugh.”

“i'm serious. don’t just throw it around like that.”

neymar looks up at him, all doe eyes and shiny lips. he shakes his head positively and rafa pecks him on the mouth before going up on the bed again, patting the space besides him.

“come on, let’s sleep, ney.”)


End file.
